


The Critic

by SebasuchansKitten



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28087542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebasuchansKitten/pseuds/SebasuchansKitten
Summary: Ciel is a snobby individual who comes from a life of pure luxury, with a refined palate that has him displeased with every cuisine he encounters. He has a comfortable life with his longtime chef boyfriend, Claude, who possesses a personality just as bitter as his. When a new pastry chef becomes a blip on Ciel's radar, he can't help but look forward to crushing the small business owner's hopes and dreams, but Sebastian has a passion for baking and helping others, and his spirit is not easily crushed. When one young man's mission is to destroy and the other's is to create, they make for a recipe of melancholy and self-discovery, and they may find that their passions aren't so different after all.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Kudos: 7





	The Critic

"Fuck, Ciel... Harder, faster."

  
As annoying as it was, I did what was commanded of me, and forced my already stiff thighs to propel me up and down at a rapid pace. I inwardly cringed at the disproportionate physique my imagination suddenly dreamt up: a fairly lean Ciel with these giant thighs, yet slender calves. Cardio was always a huge concern of mine, but the same couldn't be said for strength training, and I constantly fretted over my thighs becoming mismatched with the rest of my body; all because my boyfriend refused to fuck any other way.

  
"God, yes, just like that."

  
By now, you'd think my thighs would be used to it.

  
I arched my back a bit, keeping my breathing even as I bounced up and down on his dick. A mild cooling sensation traveled down my skin as sweat started to sheen down my back and dampen the hair on my neck. Sharp fingernails dug into my hip bones, same place as they always had. Though this position was completely routine by now, I could still feel my ass tightening in pleasure, and I knew an orgasm would be imminent, routine or not.

  
The rough smacking continued as I slammed myself down on the thick shaft, my cheeks shuddering every time I rubbed my skin against his balls. One complaint that couldn't be noted was the size department. He was always big enough, and always would be in the future. And his endings never disappointed.

  
Panting, I took a break from bouncing and rolled my hips in a grinding motion, getting a good feel of his girth inside of me. I looked down at the man beneath me, studying his features while he thrusted and grunted. The man in question was my boyfriend, Claude. Claude Faustus, to be more specific. He came from beginnings similar to mine, and he was quite respected in the city for being the greatest culinary artist around. He says 'artist'; my profession would keep it short as 'chef,' however, no one could deny his abilities, not even me. He was a master at what he did and he impressed everyone with it. We'd been together for years and were expected to get engaged and then later married at some point.

  
And yet, I had so much disdain for this man beneath me.

  
I tried to refrain from scowling when I looked down at this face. He was wearing his glasses, like he always did. Who the fuck wore glasses during sex? It was practically psychopathic behavior. He's laying there, flat on his back, with his glasses still on. He may as well be wearing socks and sandals at the same time.

  
"Ciel, start bouncing again. I can't get off with you just squirming like that."

  
I sighed, but I respected the instructions and resumed my up and down motions, still silently praying that this wouldn't give me thunder thighs at some point.

  
His hair still looked neat even though we just woke up in bed ten minutes ago. For some reason that irritated me.

  
I couldn't remember when I started hating Claude, or maybe I always had. I knew I was attracted to Claude from the start, and I think our equally bitter personalities helped us maintain a relationship for as long as we had. It's much easier to live with someone who's just as exasperated with the world as you are, after all. But I do think I disliked him from the very beginning, as well, and that wasn't a surprise, because I honestly disliked everyone I met. I had yet to meet a person who didn't irritate and disappoint me in some way, and I have since resigned myself to tolerating that fact. Claude never seemed to like me that much, either. I knew he loved our sex, and I knew he approved of my background. But that mushy shit you see on TV where two people love each other unconditionally? That just wasn't our way. And that's why we worked together so well, disinterest and all.

  
"Fuck!"

  
He slammed into me aggressively, his strong hands crushing my hips as he forced me down on his cock. I could suddenly feel hot cum filling my ass, and the sensation instantly made my insides contract in a sweet release. It wasn't mindblowing, don't get me wrong. Like I said, life isn't a fucking rom-com, but orgasms still feel good, even if you orgasm from the same position every damn day.

  
"Always the best way to wake up in the morning," Claude sighed, sitting up as I climbed off of him. He stretched, admiring his muscles in our floor length mirror. Like he did every morning. Then he strode into our master bathroom, closing the door behind him so he could shower and clean himself off. Like he did every morning. I felt like a defeated housewife, this shit was becoming so routine.

  
I raked a hand through my hair, cringing when I felt moisture cling in between my fingers. I would need a shower of my own, but his was much more pertinent for work. I was lucky that I rarely had to show up to do what I do, and most of the time my work was spent from home. Claude, being the owner of his own dining establishment and the maestro of it all, had to be there from opening to close. Although, today was Saturday, and the restaurant was not open on Saturdays. Claude was still going in to work, though.

  
Like he did every Saturday.

  
I wanted to scream.

  
"Is this why kids do drugs?" I mumbled to myself while I picked up my cell phone. I pouted as I scrolled through my phone feed, seeing the same boring shit I saw every morning.

  
Oh, no. _I_ was turning into a routine _too._

  
I let my phone fall onto the floor, not caring if the expensive screen shattered into a billion pieces. It wouldn't, of course, because we had the finest plush carpeting. And if it had, I'd just go buy a new phone. The _newest_ phone. And if that one broke, I'd just buy the next newest phone.

  
Problems seemed so insignificant when you had endless money to throw at them.

  
Even though I hated myself for becoming just as repetitive as Claude, I picked my phone up and once again started scrolling through various bouts of information, and I continued to do so when he emerged from the bathroom.

  
"Don't forget your father's dinner this Friday."

  
"Mhm," I hummed, barely paying attention, My father wouldn't let me forget, obviously.

  
"You'll have to make a speech," he continued. I felt like he was purposely trying to push my buttons. I felt that way a lot of the time, actually.

  
"And you'll have to explain why you won't open twenty restaurants instead of your measly one," I bit back, still staring at my phone screen. I could see him towel drying his hair in my periphery, and I could see him shake his head in response to my words.

  
"I don't know _how_ I could make it any clearer: _no one_ has expertise comparable to mine, and if I hired other culinary artists for my restaurants, they would sully my name. We would never maintain our ratings, and we would never maintain our excellence. How can you expect to be the best if you have a diversity of clumsy fingers handling your dishes? The idea sickens me."

  
I rolled my eyes. I've heard this explanation many times, since my father insists on repeatedly posing the question. Claude had a point. His restaurant was famous because of him, and the prestige was all thanks to his impressive abilities. There was certainly no other Claude Faustus, and he refused to settle for anything but the best. His ego was large, yet justified; another similarity between us, I supposed.

  
We fell silent for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me as I kept scrolling. Claude wasn't as dependent on his phone, and he looked down on me for it. Claude's work didn't involve staying in touch with social media, however, and mine did.

  
"Do you think you'll ever move past your blogging phase?" He casually asked. I growled in response. It wasn't unusual for him to degrade my blogging, although he knew that it made up the largest part of my career. People just didn't read newspapers anymore. When was the last time you saw someone look for a food recommendation in a newspaper? I mean, really? The internet, whether he liked it or not, was where people looked for information now. If I relied on posting my critiques in a newspaper, I may as well be using that newspaper to wipe my ass, because I certainly wouldn't be able to afford toilet paper. 

  
Well, I could, because I came from a wealthy family. But that wasn't the point.

  
I wouldn't dignify Claude with a proper response. He knew as well as I did that the blog was the centerpiece of my life. Sure, I had been featured in published magazines before, sometimes due to my cuisine critiques, sometimes due to my father. Sure, our family name had been published in newspapers countless of times. But we're in the age of technology, and we're also in the age where -- especially younger individuals like myself -- want to feel a connection to the celebrities they admire. They want to see that fancy brunch that likely cost a handful of a grand, sometimes maybe a bit more. They want to like and comment on those vacation pictures that you took while you were in the mountains in Switzerland, even if you hated it the whole fucking time and never wish to return again. Claude could mock my blog, but he couldn't change the fact that I had millions upon millions of followers waiting for the next snobby, unimpressed review, looking forward to the next dazzling photograph of that unaffordable caviar, which left my palate less than appealed. My blog and my reviews made me plenty of money, even more than his restaurant did on occasion, and I think that irked him.

  
"Did you check the stocks?"

  
"Yep."

  
"Your father's?"

  
"Great."

  
He hummed in displeasure, obviously irritated at my lack of response. Like I could give a shit.

  
"And what are _your_ plans for the day?"

  
"Coffee with Lizzie in an hour," I answered, finally setting my phone down. Claude was straightening out his suit, although there wasn't a wrinkle in sight. He was dressed his best every moment of every day, and if he managed to get something on his suit while cooking? He threw it out and bought another one.

  
"Photo shoot this Wednesday," Claude mused, checking his cufflinks. "They want both of us to appear. They're featuring a long article on my restaurant, but they'd also like to focus a good part on our relationship."

  
I nodded, more out of habit than understanding. Even the articles and photo shoots were routine, and our relationship -- especially our relationship -- being a point of interest was nothing new, either.

  
Claude left without saying much, as I was used to. Once the house was free of his presence, I was free to shower, and to become disgusted that the floor of the shower was already wet once I stepped in. _Like it was every day._

  
I fulfilled my entire skin routine before I focused on my hair, massaging various creams and serums into my locks. My hair stylist was very picky about the products I used, but I was always pleased with the smoothing result, so I didn't mind. It was very important to maintain your image as a public figure. I wasn't stalked by paparazzi the same way an actor or musician would be, but you never knew when someone may recognize you in public and snap your picture; my father, being a very wealthy man and my fame from my own career made my name pretty well known, and you _always_ had to live up to your name.

  
I didn't dress up every day as my boyfriend did. I wore suits frequently for special events, but my casual wear was much more simplistic. I purchased the majority of my fashion from Korea, because their styles are rather simplistic, yet very modish. My fans were incredibly supportive of the design choices, especially because the pieces are hard to acquire but still pleasing to the eye. Everyone always wants something foreign, something they can't have. And seeing someone else possess those things makes them want it all the more.

  
Living lavishly was never something I would give up, but I did act like an individual with lesser means on occasion. For instance, I walk to the coffee shop Lizzie and I meet at. It's really no big deal; the shop isn't too far away, and exercise was a must to your appearance upkeep, after all.

  
Frankly, it amazed me that such a coffee place was so near to our home. We lived in such elegant surroundings, but then walk a handful of blocks away and everything changes. It was like a king leaving his palace to traipse among his commoners. Never ceased to amaze me.

  
I opened the door to the establishment, the cheap, rusty bell above the door smacking into the glass to announce my presence. It made my skin crawl every time.

  
Per usual, Lizzie was already sitting at a secluded table in the corner, our drinks set in front of her. She waved at me eagerly in greeting, and I approached the table. My toes curled on cue as I pulled the chair out and heard the wooden legs scrape against the -- likely fake -- wooden floor. I would never understand how some people lived like this, let alone _enjoyed_ this type of environment. 

  
"Hey, Ciel!" Lizzie chirped excitedly, nudging my drink closer to me. "How are you this morning?" She barely drank any coffee, yet she was still so happy this early in the morning. I glanced at my watch. 9:45. Ridiculous.

  
"I'm always happy when I'm in such a well regarded facility," I replied sarcastically, looking around at the various middle class customers around me. One lady was wearing a faux leather jacket that looked like it had been spray painted black. _Oh lord._

  
"Why do you insist on coming to such a place, Lizzie?" I muttered, rolling my eyes before I picked up my drink that was most likely lukewarm. Lizzie cocked her head and batted her dazzling green eyes in confusion. Her blonde hair was perfectly straightened today, and accented with a lovely hot pink beret. A matching ascot adorned her neck, and her blouse and mini skirt had layers of complimentary pinks blended together. She looked fabulous, really. Very chic. Which was not a compliment I paid Elizabeth often, because she liked to indulge in, er... very _poor_ styles to put it honestly. Sometimes she could blend in perfectly with these struggling-to-make-ends-meet people, though her family was so well off. It really did puzzle me.

  
"What's wrong with it? I thought we met here every Saturday."

  
Well, yes, we did, but only because _Lizzie_ encouraged us to do so. I would never be caught dead in a place that made Starbucks look like fine dining, let alone a Starbucks in general. The owner of this place was as quirky as quirks get; he came from another country and built this shithole coffee shop from the ground up, and, for whatever reason, was very proud of it. He had a "generosity system" as Lizzie put it, which allowed you to pay for someone else's drink or food -- if you could _call_ it food -- and he'd keep track of it and let people have meals for free. Because of this, many homeless people hung around inside, staying for hours in an environment that may as well be a five star hotel for them. I absolutely abhorred it. Just looking at them made me feel filthly and vile. Plus, the owner _worked behind the counter_ on a regular basis. He owned the place, yet he served customers as if he was a teenager desperate for spare cash. Who did that? Someone with purple hair that's far too long and cut atrociously.

  
"Ciel, I know you don't know how to interact and accept people from different backgrounds than you," Lizzie said softly, setting her perfectly manicured hand atop mine. "But I think this is very important for you. I think you should involve yourself like this more. It's important to know more about the world around you."

  
I took a side glance at a woman who had just grabbed her coffee order, and scoffed in disgust. "I did _not_ need to know about that woman's thong up her ass that's peeking out of her jeans. That's repulsive."

  
"Ciel," Lizzie sighed again, her usual cheerful expression falling a bit. "You're smart enough to know that people are worse off than you are. You're very fortunate, but a lot of these people have to make due with what they have, and they do. You'd be surprised how resourceful people are."

  
"Survival of the fittest," I shrugged, taking a sip of my coffee and then nearly spitting it back out again. Yes, it was lukewarm, and it was just as bad as it always was. This substance tasted more like sewer water than coffee, and yet Lizzie sipped hers down with ease. She consistently told me that she orders low fat, but this _never_ tastes low fat. "Of course they're resourceful. Put two starving dogs in a ring together and one will kill the other to eat; that doesn't make it intelligent or deserving of praise, it just means it's smart _enough_ to do what it has to."

  
"How could you say that!" She exclaimed, then lowered her voice once she noticed she had garnered the attention of others. "You can't think like that, Ciel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you come to a protest with me next Sunday? I think it would really brighten your perspective on things."

  
I leaned back in my chair in exasperation. Lizzie was always going to protests with commoners about so many issues. She rallied for gay rights, she screams for climate change, she'll wear t-shirts that say **SAVE THE WHALES** and **REDUCE, REUSE, RECYCLE!** It's amazing her parents haven't disowned her yet.

  
Of course, I would never go to a protest, for various reasons. Socializing with people beneath me was a huge one, but what Lizzie also failed to realise was that our fathers backed countless companies that produced many of the wastes and used much of the energy that she was trying to rally against. Our fathers' wallets sure appreciated their contribution, so why in the world would she be trying to halt that? Is she insane?

  
These major differences made me question often why I was friends with Lizzie. Initially, Lizzie and I were supposed to get engaged at some point, due to our families having wonderful relationships with one another. These plans changed once I announced that I had realised I was gay, and such an announcement actually pleased my father more. He said my sexual orientation would help our favor with the younger generation, and it would certainly help me maintain our family's image as accepting, generous people. Lizzie didn't seem to be bothered by our futures shifting, because she always had a particular interested in befriending me, anyway. She seemed rather attached to me for whatever reason, though I couldn't say the same. The majority of the time her down-to-earth attitude disgusted me, yet I still conversed with her and maintained an acquaintance relationship with her. I still wasn't sure why, because she kept dragging me to slums like these.

  
"I will _never_ attend one of your humiliating protests," I stated matter-of-factly. "And for the millionth time, I insist that you cease your behavior, as well. You'll thank me for warning you before your father speaks with you on this."

  
Lizzie puffed her cheeks out immaturely. "How can the planet not be important to you at all? You live on it! Don't you want to maintain it?"

  
I scoffed, swirling the cheap coffee cup around in my hand. "Why would I care if the planet can't sustain itself forever? I won't be living here that long. Neither will you. It won't matter when you're dead, so why would it matter at all?"

  
"Future generations, Ciel! They're depending on us to ensure that they can live life in tranquility rather than fear of losing the only home they know!"

  
"Lizzie, I couldn't care less about our generation," I stated, and she shook her head, all of the life seemingly drained out of her.

  
"I really hope something someday will change your mind, Ciel. You really have to care more. I don't even mean about the planet, I mean in general. We all need compassion. Life is much too hard without it."

  
"I don't find my life that difficult, and I wouldn't say compassion is a factor in it," I replied coolly, standing from my seat. "Next Saturday can we have coffee in a _real_ establishment?"

  
The normally sweet and energetic Lizzie gave me a stone cold glare, and she shook her head firmly. "We will meet up here next Saturday, like we always do."

  
I sighed deeply, but didn't press the issue. I never wanted to come here, but I could guarantee I'd probably be back here again next Saturday. It was as if I liked to suffer.

  
I headed for the exit, taking a quick glance over my shoulder as I opened the creaky door. Lizzie was at the counter, chatting with the purple-haired owner. I watched as she slid him a hundred dollar bill, and I could hear her content voice over the quiet chatter of the patrons. "Here you go, Soma. I know you'll make sure everyone will eat well." He smiled at her, placing a hand dusty with coffee grounds on her arm in thanks. I shuddered at the thought of those particles sticking to my clothes, then let the door crash behind me with the dull ring of the bell.

* * *

I sat down at my computer later that afternoon, ready to compose the next review for the last meal I indulged in. I typically wrote a review once a week, although there were many occasions that I would take long breaks in between. My fans were just as entertained with photos of Claude's creations, staged photos of Claude and myself, and the lavish locations I would often visit and vacation at. People were easily entertained when their lives were not so privileged.

  
_...And although Chef Goudiere is very well known for his, quoted, "spectacular and masterful culinary creations" I must say that I was rather disappointed in the meal, and it should be no surprise that it fell below my standards. I recommend everyone be wary when visiting Chef Goudiere; do not let the raving reviews brainwash you into thinking that he is a cuisine legend, for he isn't, and he never will be._

  
I stretched my slender fingers out, rolling my shoulders back in relief. I knew as soon as the critique was published, countless of comments would roll in. I didn't much care for the opinion of people lesser than myself, but I would read them on occasion. I decided to treat myself to a nice cup of tea, and then read a few of the comments that had been posted as soon as my review went live.

  
**FoodLvr24**   
_Great review Ciel!! Sounds like hes a waste of time. I wouldn't eat there!!!_

  
I rolled my eyes. Who were they kidding? Someone who couldn't afford to properly spell 'lover' would sell their soul to eat at a restaurant like that. Hell, they'd probably sell their soul for a free meal at McDonald's.

  
**unidentifiedpip**   
_Shut up fag_

  
That one was always entertaining. I had been out as gay for ten years, but it was still a point of interest for everyone. They either adored me for it or hated me with such a passion.

  
**Ladybug7893**   
_Shut up unidentifiedpip! Ur just jealous because ciel makes money eating food and u wont ever get anywhere_

  
Of course, there was always the knights in the comments. I didn't need anyone to stand up for me, but it was cute that they chose to waste their time doing so.

  
**SkepticalToucan**   
_Love your reviews Ciel, but is there any food that you do actually like? They're always so negative. I'll be surprised if you ever make a post where you actually enjoyed the food._

  
Those comments weren't new, either; everyone these days craved positivity like addicts craved cocaine. Everything had to be sunshine and rainbows, unicorns and happy endings. These people needed to wake the fuck up. Not everything was positive, in fact, most things weren't at all. I didn't expect someone with such a ridiculous username to have a refined palate; therefore, they couldn't comprehend how every meal has its flaws. Even Claude's, although I couldn't comment on them to the public because our relationship's image had to remain flawless, and I wouldn't complain in private or else I'd never hear the end of his bitching.

  
The comments were rather unoriginal and lackluster. I sipped my tea casually, scrolling through the various remarks. A single eyebrow of mine gradually raised, and my skimming slowed down when I noticed a sudden pattern in multiple scattered comments.

  
_Do you think he'll review the new bakery? It's close to where he lives and the sweets are soooo good!_

  
_pls review sebastians bakery!!!!! he deserves the help!!!!!!!!_

  
_Hey Ciel theres a new bakery near you Sebastian Michaelis is the owner its a really small place but he bakes everything himself and its really good you should really try it_

  
_SEBASTIAN SEBASTIAN SEBASTIAN PLZ I SEE OTHERS RECOMMENDING IT ITS WORTH UR TIME!!!!_

  
_oh man theres already a lot of comments about the bakery lol i was gonna mention that 2. ciel you should review it_

  
Scroll, scroll, scroll. Comments I once could predict were now being replaced with mentions of this new bakery, one I had never heard of before. Sebastian Michaelis? The name wasn't familiar. And if the name wasn't familiar, then it wasn't worth my time. I critiqued well known, prestigious restaurants for their fine cuisine, not a crummy little bakery that just opened its doors. Who did these people think they were, demanding such a ridiculous thing? Likely the same people who considered Olive Garden a decent dinner.

  
I closed my blog, stiffly standing and storming away from my office. The fact that I was being degraded to a simple bakery was unbelievable, preposterous. Clearly these so called "fans" of mine needed a serious reality check, and probably psychotherapy.

  
Glancing at my watch, I realised Claude would be coming home soon. We were planning on making dinner together tonight, because it made for a great post on social media. A brief video of us playfully teasing each other in the kitchen, a photo of us preparing and then cooking the meal, then kissing when we're done. Everyone loved those fake 'awww moments.'

  
I sat down at our kitchen island, letting the silence fall around me. Claude would come home, we'd get our social media sensation post, eat, then I'd have to ride him once again tonight until he came and we both went to sleep.

  
Like we did every night.


End file.
